


Wooden Flowers

by draculard



Category: Mumintroll | Moomins Series - Tove Jansson, 楽しいムーミン一家 | Moomin (Anime)
Genre: Fluff, Hugs, M/M, Nature, whittling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-26
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-02-07 03:47:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18612490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/draculard/pseuds/draculard
Summary: When Moomin comes across an unfamiliar wooden structure in the forest, he knows instinctively that it belongs to Snufkin.





	Wooden Flowers

Moomintroll knows without even having to think about it that the little moss-covered structure in the woods belongs to Snufkin. When he first sees it, he thinks it’s a large, old stump, or a lush little hill -- it takes a moment for his mind to adjust, for him to recognize what he really sees: a fallen tree trunk that’s landed on a diagonal, with little branches leaned against it and moss and other duff piled over the frame like a roof.

There are little white wildflowers and dandelions still growing alongside the moss, and three brown mushrooms sticking out of the shelter like tiny chimneys. Moomin walks around the structure, admiring it so completely that he barely notices the strange  _ snick-snick _ sound until he rounds the shelter and stumbles right over Snufkin himself.

“Oh, Snufkin!” Moomin says. He reaches out to steady himself, and to stop Snufkin from hitting the ground, but Snufkin avoids his grasp. After a moment, Moomin sees why -- there’s a little knife in Snufkin’s hand, the blade sharp and small.

“Moomintroll,” says Snufkin in greeting. In his left hand he holds a twig, partially stripped of bark. Moomin’s ears perk up at the sight of it and he sits cross-legged next to Snufkin on the forest floor.

“I didn’t know you had a house in the woods,” he says. Snufkin keeps his eyes on the twig as he applies the knife to it, pushing through the wood with his thumb at the back of the blade.

“Keeps the rain out better than my tent,” he says. “But not so much as a cabin.”

Moomin glances at the charming little structure just as a songbird alights on it, picking at the myriad of grasses stuck to the roof. Sure enough, it seems the moss overhead has absorbed most of last night’s rain; water drips from it in fat drops, down onto the soft dirt where Snufkin must have spent the night.

_ Snick-snick. _

Moomin glances back at Snufkin as he whittles away at the twig. There’s no discernible pattern that Moomin can see; Snufkin strips down the pale-brown layer of wood beneath the bark, until the light, greenish flesh beneath reveals itself. 

“What are you doing, Snufkin?” Moomin asks. Snufkin says nothing; his large, dark eyes are fixed on the twig. As the seconds pass by, Moomin relaxes, letting his own gaze roam over the rain-fresh grass and the budding trees. In the distance, he can hear a trickle of water from a stream, half-covered by the  _ snick-snick _ noise from Snufkin’s knife.

He glances back at Snufkin and sees him peeling pieces of wood from the top of the twig with his blade. He stops each time before the shavings cut off, leaving them to curl in a circle around the wood. As Moomin watches, Snufkin moves his knife lower and cuts deeper, slicing two small slivers out from each side of the twig. Again, he stops his blade before the slivers are entirely removed.

Solemnly, silently, Snufkin twists the bark-covered part of the twig off and tosses it away. He turns over the strange little creation in his hand, examining it in the early-morning light. Then he holds it up, and suddenly Moomin understands what it is.

The thin curls of wood shavings at the top are petals. The bark-stripped length of the twig, pared down by Snufkin’s knife, is a thin stem. The two slivers are as long and tapered as leaves.

“It’s a flower!” Moomin exclaims. To his amazement, Snufkin blushes a little, unable to meet Moomin’s eyes.

“It’s for you,” he says.

“But, Snufkin,” says Moomin, hesitating even as he takes it, holding it gingerly in his paw, “this is amazing. You can’t give it away.”

“I made it for you,” says Snufkin stubbornly. His cheeks are still pink and he digs the tip of his knife into the dirt before him, idly turning up pebbles. He refuses to look at Moomin.

Moomin looks down at the flower in his paw, so delicate and thin that he fears it could break at any minute, or be ferried away by the wind. The petals lay atop each other gracefully, almost translucent, and with leftover rain dripping off the moss behind him and a creek trickling somewhere in the distance, Moomin imagines he can see dewdrops on those petals, perfect for the morning mist that’s still winding through the trees.

“Snufkin…” Moomin says, and Snufkin finally looks at him, taking in Moomin’s smile and returning it with a tiny, crooked one of his own. “I’ll keep it forever. Truly.”

Snufkin ducks his head, still blushing, and gives an awkward little nod. With the flower cradled gently in one paw, Moomin leans forward, wrapping Snufkin in a warm, close hug. Snufkin’s clothes are still damp from a night halfway-under the rain, his frame beneath the coat wiry and fragile. It’s a long moment before he returns the hug, his arms winding around Moomin and pulling him closer.

“Thank you,” Moomin says. He hears Snufkin sigh, a contented little puff of air against his shoulder. “I love you, Snufkin.”

The answer comes in a mumble, embarrassed but full of warmth. “I love you, too, Moomintroll.”


End file.
